


Busts

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Gavin sees something he absolutely hates/would bone.
Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	Busts

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“I hate parties,” Gavin grumbles, just as the car’s pulling up to the curb. It parks itself with more grace than Gavin’s ever managed, and that doesn’t help his mood at all. People can’t even _drive_ themselves anymore. Maybe he could buy an old clunker like Anderson, but then the others would look down on and tease him, because he can’t get away with the sort of shit that Anderson does. He kicks open the car door a little harder than necessary, and Chris climbs out the other side. 

They meet on the front lawn, already cringing at the booming opera-techno that’s oozing from the house. Chris mutters back, “You hate everything,” which is kind of true.

Gavin definitely hates their mark, because Zlatko’s house looks like it belongs in a horror movie, and screw anyone who thinks it’s a good idea to throw parties at one in the morning. The neighbours must be cringing. Gavin wants to sleep. Maybe somebody’s even called the cops, but the cops are already there and they’re not going to do a damn thing. A noise complaint won’t get them anywhere.

Chris leads the way through the ajar gates and along the battered path to the house, the distant streetlights and disco-ball windows the only defense to the night. It’s pitch black outside, but Gavin can still make out all the empty bottles smashed in the grass. He’s been on half a dozen drug busts, and somehow, he’s sure this is going to be the seediest thing he’s ever seen. The door’s left open—neither bothers competing with the music by trying to knock. 

They let themselves in, hover in the foyer, and ogle the gazillion pieces of evidence all around them. It’s _astounding_ that this guy hasn’t been brought in yet. There’s nothing overtly criminal, but his house just _looks_ like the den of a psychopath. Chris eyes the dead ostrich in the corner, stuffed into a sequined cocktail dress, and mumbles, “ _Jesus_.”

“Even Jesus can’t save this guy,” Gavin agrees. As if to bolster his point, an android missing half her head and all her clothes strolls past them, holding up a tray of drinks like it’s just a regular Friday night. They were told there would be android servers. Android _playthings_. While Chris stares at the ash burns on the android’s shoulder, Gavin winces away. 

Another android’s just come up from the basement, also holding a drink tray, at least wearing clothes—a scandalously small bathing suit that dips so low down his chest it barely covers his nipples. The rosy buds are pushing against the twin peaks of the fabric, sweetheart neckline bent forward to accommodate those hardened pebbles. Gavin can see the pink rims half-veiled by the fabric, eyes tracing the android’s broad, smooth, hairless and oiled-up chest, glimmering in the flashing party lights—his skin seems to shine with sweat or maybe _glitter_. The bottom of the black suit cuts down between the man’s legs, cupping a sizeable bulge so skin-tight that Gavin can almost make out the veins along the man’s synthetic cock. He didn’t even know android cocks _had_ veins. Or balls. But he can just _barely_ see the pink edges of a small sac peaking out around the sides. Creamy thighs are cut off by sheer stockings held up by garters, bright blue bows on either side. Then Gavin’s gaze finally lifts to the android’s face, and all the human colour drains from his own.

It’s only a small consolation that Connor looks as surprised to see Gavin as Gavin is him. He has his brown hair neatly combed with that same little curl resting on his forehead, a headband sporting erect bunny-ears nestled in it. The colour of the headband complements his deep brown eyes and the little moles that dot his handsome face and make him look so painfully _unique_. Those eyes hold more recognition than they should, soft, pink lips parting as though to offer greeting. Then he shuts his mouth and quickly crosses the distance between them, his heels clicking on the way. Connor’s wearing _heels_.

Gavin’s never been more speechless in his life. It takes a _lot_ to make him speechless. In the corner of his eye, he can see drunken patrons grinding scantily-clad androids against the walls, and he hates himself for wondering why no one’s playing with _Connor_ , the hottest one here.

But Gavin quickly stamps that thought down, because Connor’s not hot, he’s _goofy_ , and Gavin’s certainly never fantasized about seeing him like this before. Gavin’s not going to go home and jerk off to the new image of it either. ( _Gavin doesn’t wonder about what those nipples taste like._ ) As soon as Connor’s close enough to be hear without yelling, Gavin snarls, “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Connor lifts his chin a fraction of an inch—a subtle show of defiance that makes Gavin’s cock twitch. He hates that this one android won’t just lie down and do whatever he says. Hates and loves it. Connor calmly answers, “I would thank you not to blow my cover, _Detective_.” He emphasizes the word in the exact opposite way that he so often purrs Anderson’s title—there _Lieutenant_ is a longing caress, _detective_ a pitying insult. Gavin’s eyes narrow. 

He growls, “ _We’re_ undercover here. So _you_ can march your plastic ass back to the precinct and suck Anderson’s wrinkled dick.” Which he probably will do and Gavin _hates_ more than absolutely everything including Connor’s stupid brown eyes. Connor simply frowns.

“Evidently, we both are. Perhaps Captain Fowler thought it best to hedge his bets, given the importance of this mission.”

Gavin snorts. _Important mission_ his ass. All they have to do is find Zlatko’s office or bedroom or whatever and rifle through any paperwork they can find—it shouldn’t take long to find some damning evidence with how _creepy_ this asshole is. And by the looks of it, he’s not blocking people off either—they seem to be wandering around where they want, touching and taking and pushing androids down to their knees. No warrant necessary. A woman walks past them and makes a point of slapping Connor’s ass before heading up the stairs. Connor stiffens, a faint flush filling his cheeks, but nothing happens otherwise. Gavin absently notes that the flush is red, despite his blood being blue. Then Gavin makes the mistake of wondering what the back of the outfit looks like—if it’s got proper coverage or thong strings that suck between his asscheeks. Gavin’s never seen Connor this naked before, but he still knows Connor has a great ass. Round and full but taut when he bends over to scoop evidence between those open lips— 

Not that he cares. He means a great ass _for an android._ He wouldn’t want it even if Connor did have a tight, velvety asshole that could lube up on command and take Gavin’s whole fist inside it. 

Chris coughs awkward and starts to say, “Maybe we should split up and try different sides of the hou—”

But Connor’s LED flicks yellow mid-word, and Chris cuts off at the colour change. Connor’s eyes dart aside for a fraction of a second before he’s hissing at Gavin, “Spit on me.”

Gavin’s brain shorts out. Usually when Connor asks that in Gavin’s fantasies, he’s kneeling before Gavin’s bed with his hands tied behind his back and his heaving chest already covered in Gavin’s release. As in, it’s usually the extra push after he’s fucked Connor senseless and wondering _what else can he do to defile this gorgeous creature_. Not foreplay. (Those fantasies are mostly wet dreams, completely not his fault.) “What?”

“Spit on me,” Connor repeats, before hurriedly correcting, “Slap me—”

“ _What?_ ”

Connor gives Gavin a frustrated look and instead takes that half a step closer to Chris, suddenly flattening against his body, rolling hard to crash their hips together—Chris lets out a startled moan as Connor drags his barely-clothed cock along Chris’ inner thigh. Then Connor’s free hand is curled in Chris’ shirt, the tray held aside as he smashes his mouth into Chris’, opening wide. Gavin can actually see, as though in slow motion, Connor’s tongue run across Chris’ bottom lip. Chris’ eyes are wide, confused, but he opens his mouth anyway, because _who wouldn’t open up for Connor?_ His hand grabs a fistful of Connor’s ass maybe to steady himself but probably to feel Connor up. Gavin watches those fingers dig in and squeeze while Chris surrenders to the kiss and swallows Connor up.

A bulky, lumbering figure stumbles past them, and Gavin belatedly realizes it’s their drunken host. Zlatko pauses next to Gavin, sees what Chris is doing to an android, and chuckles darkly before moving on. Apparently, he doesn’t care if new faces show up at his party, so long as they’re willing to fuck the androids Zlatko’s broken down to nothing.

If Zlatko had gotten a better look, he might’ve noticed how _perfect_ Connor is—nothing like the battered, mindless machines meandering about the rest of the house. But Gavin doesn’t question that either. He’s still staring at his best friend making out with his biggest crush. He hasn’t felt so horribly betrayed since Leo Manfred told everyone he was gay in elementary school. 

When Connor finally steps back, peering around the corner after Zlatko, Chris keeps looking dazed and hungry, crotch tented. Gavin’s pretty sure he’s not gay. But then, Gavin thinks, who wouldn’t be gay for Connor? Not that Gavin is. Then Chris catches Gavin’s heated glare and shrugs awkwardly. It’s not like he hasn’t heard a million and one of Gavin’s rants on Connor’s too-fuckable mouth and wondrously sculpted ass. Of course Gavin always said that meant nothing, but Chris is supposed to be his friend—he should’ve seen through that bullshit. Of course if they were _going_ to fuck Connor, Gavin should have first dibs. 

Connor doesn’t seem to give any particular shit about either of them. He doesn’t even wipe the tiny fleck of spittle off his bottom lip when he turns back. _Chris’_ spittle. Gavin’s _seething._

He’s not jealous, he’s just... mad. Maybe at himself. He had an amazing opportunity, and he froze up and blew it. He can’t accept it. Without thinking, he sucks one back and spits right in Connor’s face.

It hits him square in the cheek. Drizzling slowly down, it stops near his chin, the rest spread thinner and picking up the light, shimmering like a beacon: a mark of Gavin’s ownership.

Connor blinks at him. Chris quietly mutters, “Well _shit_.”

Gavin squints at Connor, _daring_ him to say anything. He knows he’s done it several minutes too late. Obviously, Connor was looking to ‘blend in’ before Zlatko caught them, because apparently, around here, dominating androids is blending in. Gavin got the memo eventually. 

Gavin crossed a line. He knows it. He doesn’t know what Connor’s going to do. A tiny part of him wonders if Connor’s going to spit on him back. Then he loathes himself for being so into that. He doesn’t know if androids can make spit. Evidently, they can swallow it. 

Connor doesn’t spit at him. Ever so slowly, Connor lifts the hand not holding the tray, one delicate finger carefully wiping Gavin’s saliva off his cheek. 

Then he brings it to his mouth, opens up obscenely wide, and wipes it off on his tongue. He pets that tongue a few times before popping the entire digit into his mouth and sucking it dry. It’s pure torture to watch him draw it out again. He even smacks his lips afterwards, tongue tracing around them, like he wants to make Gavin drop dead on the spot from unbridled-lust overload. 

He breathes in so hard his nostrils flare. Then Connor informs Gavin, like he’s just run the data and determined every nutritional fact about Gavin’s entire makeup, “Have a drink, Detective. You need to consume more calories if you’re going to have the strength to be of any use to me when I bring Zlatko in.” He tops it off by plucking up a slender glass full of bubbling champagne that somehow didn’t spill when he was eating out Chris’ mouth. He hands it Gavin, who numbly takes it.

Connor gives Chris one too, except he’s smiling politely when he does that. Then he turns around and struts off, hips swinging _way_ more than necessary.

Not only is the back of his costume as thin as a thong, but that tiny strip of fabric that should be wedged in his crack, sucked between too surprisingly toned, taut cheeks, is pried aside to make room for the plug stuffed up his ass. A small, furry white ball is attached to the end like a bunny tail. Except Gavin’s pretty sure those are usually supposed to be attached to the costume and not _stuffed up someone’s ass_. But it tells Gavin what he needs to know: Connor _does_ have an asshole, and it’s tight enough to hold a plug in it. 

It’s probably too tight for Gavin’s massive dick, but there’s only one way to find out.

He wordlessly hands Chris his glass and marches off, on the prowl for juicy rabbits.


End file.
